


Beckoning the Velvet Night

by KHansen



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Animal Death, F/F, Female Eskel (The Witcher), Female Jaskier | Dandelion, Genderbending, Kinda, Meet-Cute, Mention of Pigs, Strangers to Lovers, The Law of Surprise (The Witcher), Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion, no beta we die like stregobor fucking should have, not graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28815537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KHansen/pseuds/KHansen
Summary: When Eskel is nearly killed by a wild monster upon the prairie, it's only luck that she's saved by a mysterious woman with golden eyes.
Relationships: Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 13
Kudos: 46
Collections: The Witcher Quick Fic #04





	Beckoning the Velvet Night

**Author's Note:**

> It's about the vibes.

The wooden wheels of their covered wagon crunch and rumble over the sand and stones that line the rutted path. With the sun beating down upon her red bonnet, sweat drips down her spine and glistens upon her scarred face. The hot wind rustles the prairie grasses that line the road and the mules that pull the wagon are huffing and braying, tails whipping to smack away horse flies that congregate upon their flanks. On the horizon a homestead rises up out of the hills and Eskel sighs in relief just as her pa, seated upon his horse and riding alongside the wagon, tips his hat back to peer at it.

“Nearly there now, Kelly,” he announces and she hums in agreement, the heat far too overbearing to think properly. She’d kill for a glass of lemonade, although it’s unlikely the Rivias will have any; the last time she had some was on the Fourth of July, ladled from a barrel into a tin cup for her and anyone else who wanted to try some, courtesy of Mister Gaetan’s general store.

They reach the homestead– passing by fields of tilled earth that fill the air with the heavy scent of manure and dust– within a few hours, just before dusk, and Eskel jumps down from the driving board of the wagon with a grunt. She stretches her arms above her head, twisting to release the tension held in her spine from being seated upon the uncomfortable wagon for hours on end. She tugs at the sweat-damp straps of her bonnet tied beneath her chin and then at the cuffs of her long sleeves for good measure. She wishes they were back home so she could just be in a shirt and trousers, or even a shift, but polite company calls for proper clothing in a calico dress and linen apron. 

“Ho, there!” Mister Rivia, with his graying red hair and bushy beard, waves cheerfully, “Vesemir, Eskel, how are you?”

“Well, thank you,” Vesemir nods his head as he dismounts his horse. A stablehand runs over to take the reins from him while another farmhand starts unloading the wagon. “Visenna have the pot on? I smell something good.”

“Your keen nose is smelling pork!” Mister Rivia clasps Vesemir’s hand to shake it before extending his hand to Eskel, “We just butchered Old Bess this morning. She was a good sow, but ripe with her years, and it was her time.”

Eskel shakes his hand with a tight smile, uncomfortable in her rapidly cooling dress as the sun dips below the horizon. “Nice to see you again, Mister Rivia.”

“And you, my dear! Geralt’s around here somewhere, if the two of you want to catch up before supper. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was in the stables with the horses again; he’s just broken his first foal, you know!”

“That’s swell news,” Eskel nods and clasps her hands in front of her, “I was hoping if you didn’t mind me cleaning up, though? The road here was hot and dusty, and I fear I’m not for good company right now.”

Mister Rivia blinks and then laughs, “Of course! The new guest house is around back, you know your way. Just don’t be lingering until too long after dark, we’ve had some activity in the nights as of late.”

“Activity?” Vesemir’s sharp eyes flick to Mister Rivia, a frown tugging at his lips, “Anything we need to be worried about, Korin?”

Eskel is already walking away with her bag in her clutches as Mister Rivia waves his hand dismissively, “No, no, not at all. We’ve got the perimeter fence now, and I’ve heard word of a witcher being about, so there shouldn’t be a problem. Come, I’ll tell you more inside.”

“A witcher?” Vesemir sounds amused, Eskel doesn’t look back as she steps onto the low stoop of the guest house. “Witchers ain’t real, Korin, you know this.”

She opens the door to the house, the sickly sweet air of fresh hewn, sun heated lumber puffing out into her face. Eskel grimaces but steps into the warm building, making a beeline for the second bedroom that she normally occupies. She lights the oil lamp and opens the closet to start hanging up her dresses before remembering she still has her bonnet on and ripping it off in disgust, dislodging the pins holding her long brown plaits up and the braids tumble down against her back. 

Eskel sighs and rubs the dust from her eyes, yawning widely. They’ve been planning this visit for several months now– the Rivias are close business partners and friends after all– but it’s always a rough trip to just  _ get _ here. Why the Rivias had to live on the border of the New Mexican desert, she’ll never understand; Mister Rivia claims the soil is more fertile here since there’s the underground spring, and she has to concede that his crop yield supports his theory. 

She flops back on the straw mattress and stares at the ceiling timbers for a while, counting all the dark stains from sap that saturate the fresh wood and gathering her thoughts and energy once more. She should wash up before anything else; and, with another heavy sigh, sits up again and picks up the wooden pitcher. 

It’s dark outside now, her lollygagging having wasted away the last remaining rays of sunlight. The air is cool, nearly cold, and the sparse grasses rustle in the gentle night breeze. The lightly perfumed scent of night jasmine carried on the soft wind that brushes her skirts around her calves is a sweet relief to the bitter scent of the road and the overpowering smells of sap. Eskel inhales deeply before letting out her breath, looking up at the wide expanse of stars that have beckoned the arrival of night, the large moon– only a shard of it lit with the waning of its phases– hanging just above the horizon as it begins its voyage across the velvet sky.

Eskel closes the door behind her and sets off for the well at the edge of the property, passing the animal pens and listening to them shift around uneasily. “It’s just me,” she murmurs to the cow as Bertha sticks her head over the rail and noses at her arm, “I’m just getting some water.” 

The night is oddly silent in exception of the windblown grass, not a chirping cricket or hooting ground owl to be heard. It sets Eskel’s nerves on edge, the hair on her neck standing on end and her footsteps hastening. The heels of her boots thump solidly against the ground as she hurries to the well. She sets the pitcher down and uncovers the well– a hole in the ground really, with a wooden board to cover it– before lowering the bucket into the darkness. She can hear the burbling of the water down below.

A low growl fills the air.

Eskel spins around, dropping the rope for the bucket. It slithers down into the well with a splash. There, in the darkness, are two glittering black eyes. The beast is crouched low in the grass, only its tall tail– spiked with spines and ridged like a saguaro– stands above. A cactus cat.

Normally peaceful nocturnal creatures, cactus cats slash the bodies of cacti and drink the sweet juices for sustenance; unfortunately, this also gets them high as a kite, and makes them aggressively territorial. And it appears Eskel is on this one’s territory.

She raises her hands, keeping her eyes on the cat as she backs away slowly, “Easy, kitty. I ain’t here to harm ya. I just was getting some water and then was gonna be on my way.”

The cat’s growl intensifies as it lowers itself deeper into the grass, ready to pounce. Eskel’s boot heel catches on the edge of the well cover. She falls back with a yelp. The cat leaps. She screams.

An answering roar echoes through the air. Eskel opens her eyes just in time to see a dark shape slam into the cat, both going tumbling across the ground. Her green eyes are wide as she watches the figure get to their feet, little more than a silhouette in the night. The gleam of a blade catches her eye as her savior draws their weapon.

The cat snarls and yowls as it leaps at its new target. The person dodges out of the way, their weapon arcing and easily slicing through the tail of the cat. The cat screeches as its spiny tail drops to the ground. The cat spins around and leaps again before the person can recover from their slash.

_ Bang! _

The flash of a gun. The cat thumps to the dirt. Eskel sits up slowly. They turn to look at her with glowing golden eyes and she gasps in shock. 

The person flinches.

They  _ flinch. _ This person who just killed a cactus cat recoils when she gasps and starts to turn away with their shoulders near their ears and Eskel scrambles to her feet, “Wait!”

“Eskel!” Geralt’s voice comes from the direction of the house. She glances to the side to see him running over, a burning oil lantern in hand. His fiery red hair and pale freckled skin are a relief and a nuisance in this moment. “Eskel, are you alright? I heard what sounded like screams.”

“I’m okay,” she reassures him, glancing at the person. Their features are thrown into sharp relief as Geralt’s lantern arrives. Long brown hair– only a shade lighter than Eskel’s own– long chin and thin cheeks, broad shoulders, and the most striking golden eyes she’s ever seen. 

“A witcher,” Geralt breathes, “My pa’s told me about your kind. Nearly extinct you are.”

“Thank you for the reminder,” the witcher snaps. Their voice is surprisingly high and Eskel blurts out:

“Are you a woman?”

“Well, don’t sound so surprised about it,” the witcher crosses her arms, lips pulling down into a scowl. It’s then that Eskel notices the dark staining on the witcher’s arms.

“You’re bleeding!”

The witcher looks down at her arms as though in surprise, “I’ll take care of it later. Make sure you don’t have any more critters on your property, you can keep the cats away with more jasmine. I reckon he got caught on your ground since the soil around the plants looks fresh.”

“Is there anything I can do to pay you?” Geralt asks, handing the lantern to Eskel and patting his pockets, “I… I don’t think I’ve got anything on me right now, you caught me unawares, but I know the tradition of witchers. Killing monsters for coin.”

The witcher waves her hand, “Don’t worry your pretty head about it, I should be on my way. Got places to be.” She sticks two fingers in her mouth and whistles sharply, an answering whinny from the darkness preceding the tell-tale gait of a horse.

“Surely there’s  _ something,” _ Geralt argues, “Please, you saved my friend.”

The witcher’s horse stops by her side and she plants her boot into the stirrup, mounting smoothly. She looks back at him and sighs, turning her eyes skyward as she thinks, “Fine. Fine. I claim uhh… the law of surprise or whatever. Give me that what you’ve got but don’t know yet.”

Geralt frowns in confusion and opens his mouth when the door to the main homestead flies open, light streaming across the ground, and his father runs out. “Geralt, my boy, good news! Vesemir and I have agreed it would be prudent for you and Eskel to be wed!”

The witcher’s eyes widen as she makes contact with Eskel. And then swears.

“Fuck!”

* * *

Eskel quickly learns three things about her new wife:

  1. She’s incredibly beautiful
  2. She’s incredibly stubborn
  3. She’s incredibly stupid



Clearly, she needs Eskel along for the ride as– by the next morning alone– she’s refused medical attention, tried to sneak out the back door, been spooked by the Rivias’ dog, snapped irritably when asked questions about anything at all, and sulked boorishly the rest of the while. This woman has little to no people skills and very plainly just wants to leave.

Eskel might be in love with her already.

When she woke up this morning, she found the witcher’s horse gone and hoofprints left in the dust being the only indicator as to where she might have gone. Eskel had quickly gathered her things, hugged Geralt, kissed her pa, and then mounted her father’s horse to chase after her wife surprise. She’s never been alone before, not like this, with the sky stretching out before her and her future a blank page; it’s both frightening and freeing, lifting a weight she didn’t know she was carrying from her shoulders.

It takes half a day before she spots the witcher, riding up beside the woman and slowing Letho to a walk. The witcher looks startled for about half a second, not at her arrival but at  _ who _ she is, before scowling. “You shoulda stayed back, girlie.”

“Your my wife now,” Eskel points out smugly, “You claimed me in the law of surprise so now I’m all yours to deal with.”

The witcher grumbles under her breath for a while– which Eskel happily allows her to do to get it out of her system– before groaning and letting her head fall back. “Alright! Fine. Damn, I’m never gonna hear the end of this from Valdo.”

Eskel grins, triumphant, “Who’s Valdo?”

“The golden boy of the Ox.”

“The Ox?”

The witcher pulls her medallion away from her chest and angles it towards Eskel in explanation. Carved into the face of the metal is the face and horns of a sturdy ox. Eskel shakes her head slowly, “That doesn’t tell me anything.” The witcher rolls her eyes and Eskel scowls.

“You can’t be rolling your darned eyes at me, Witcher! Y’all are as good as cryptids these days, my own pa didn’t even think witchers were real, so you can’t be rolling your pretty eyes at me like I’m fucking stupid,” Eskel snaps and the witcher looks surprised.

She’s pensive for a long while, just watching Eskel as their horses plod along. Eskel pretends she doesn’t care about the witcher’s piercing stare, that she doesn’t want to raise a hand and cover the garish scars that cover the right half of her face. The only noise is the wind in their hair and the crunching of the dirt beneath shoed hooves.

Finally, the witcher speaks. “Jaskier.”

“Bless you.”

The witcher snorts and looks forward at the road, “No. My name is Jaskier. And this is my horse Dandelion.”

“That doesn’t seem like a very fierce name for a war horse.”

“Who ever said she was a war horse?” Jaskier raises an eyebrow, “No, this is the dumbest fucking horse this side of the Mississippi. She couldn’t tell an arrow from a carrot.”

Eskel’s lips twitch as she tries not to laugh, a smile pushing through, “So, Jaskier, wife of mine, where are we headed?”

“That’s fucking weird,” Jaskier murmurs before announcing, “East to the big M herself. I was headed south for winter.”

“Where south?”

“New Orleans, the prettiest city in all the bayou.”

* * *

The journey to the Mississippi River is long and winding, taking two weeks during which the temperature drops and Eskel finds herself shivering atop Letho– even with Jaskier’s duster wrapped around her shoulders. Jaskier seems unaffected by the chill, but vanishes one day and returns with an entire fleece wardrobe for Eskel. It must have cost her a small fortune, but Jaskier denies buying it and says she took on a contract for the clothing. 

The days are slow and arduous, dragging on as the scenery doesn’t change even with each new state the pair enter. Eskel manages to coax Jaskier into talking more, and the transformation of the witcher is incredible once she feels safe enough to chatter along. Jaskier talks and talks and talks, and if she isn’t talking she’s whistling or humming or singing, seemingly incapable of being quiet for even a second. 

It even seems like Jaskier is warming up to Eskel: she’s started showing Eskel how to tell poisonous plants from edible ones, how to shoot her revolver, how to set a snare, how to hunt for their supper. And suppertime is Eskel’s favorite time of day.

Not only do they stop and bed down for the night, but sitting beside Jaskier with the firelight dancing upon the witcher’s face and shadowing her luminous eyes leaves Eskel breathless. Truly, Jaskier is the most beautiful woman Eskel’s ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on. When they bathe, she’s caught glimpses of strong muscles, pale and freckled skin, pink scars carving a history into a well worn canvas. Eskel wants to ask about them, wants to know the stories behind each one, wants to run her fingers along the edges of Jaskier and soften them.

She’s in deep.

Jaskier has started touching Eskel more, too. A hand up to mount her horse, a gentle redirection when teaching, a friendly nudge as they laugh together, an arm slung around her shoulders for comfort and warmth. By the time they reach the Mississippi, they’ve all but held hands, and Eskel’s fingers ache to lace through and tangle with Jaskier’s. Eskel refuses to admit she’s half in love with Jaskier’s hands alone.

The port of Memphis is bustling and busy, nearly too loud for Eskel and certainly too loud for Jaskier– who has since confided in Eskel about her heightened senses. Men are shouting, riverboats are honking, and the clanging and clapping of metal and wood as ships are loaded and unloaded fills the air. Eskel grimaces as they lead their horses through the mess slowly, watching closely for any children that may find themselves caught beneath equine hooves.

“Which boat are we looking for?” Eskel asks, glancing over at Jaskier curiously and then going back to keeping lookout. Jaskier is scanning the docks with narrowed eyes, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“The River Devil,” Jaskier raises a hand to shield her eyes from the sun as she squints harder, “I’ve worked with her captain for years.”

“You still haven’t told me how old you are.”

“Don’t you know it’s rude to ask a woman her age?” Jaskier shoots back and Eskel laughs. “There, see that little red riverboat?” She leans in close to point so Eskel can follow the line of her finger, shoulder brushing warmly against Eskel’s. 

Eskel ignores the warm blush that rises to her cheeks as she nods, spotting the black smokestacks of the paddle boat, “That’s where we’re headed?”

Jaskier hums with a nod as she straightens up again, taking Eskel’s hand in her own without a word. Eskel’s heart is racing, her palm clammy– and boy is she thankful Jaskier wears gloves– as she laces her fingers with the witcher. Jaskier doesn’t pull away, and Eskel lets herself hope that this isn’t just so Jaskier won’t lose her in the crowd as they make their way to the River Devil. 

“Hey!” Jaskier shouts up, cupping a hand around her mouth, “Zoltan!”

“What do you want?” A very short and somewhat stumpy man with a very impressive beard scowls over the edge of the ship. Upon seeing Jaskier, however, his face lights up, “Jaskier! Come on aboard, lass, come on! And who’s this you’ve got with you?”

Jaskier hands Eskel off to Zoltan as he helps her board the little boat, “This is my wife, Eskel.”

“Wife!” Zoltan looks shocked and delighted, glancing back and forth between them, “Jiminy Christmas, I never thought I’d see the day Jaskier settled down; and with a proper lady no less!”

“Proper lady,” Jaskier scoffs and Eskel glares at her as she brushes off her skirts.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Mister Zoltan.”

“Please, just Zoltan,” the man waves her off and descends the gangway to help Jaskier bring the horses aboard, “Mister Zoltan was my father.”

“Your father was named Erick,” Jaskier says flatly and Eskel chokes on a laugh as Jaskier winks at her.

“Yes, well! I was making the lady feel welcome, Jaskier!”

“Am I not also a lady?”

“Not since I saw you hawk chewing tobacco into a spittoon from twenty feet, you ain’t.”

Jaskier laughs and nods her head in concession, “Fair point. When do we set sail? We’re supposed to be in New Orleans by the month.”

“We’ll set out in the morning, I gotta finish supplying the old girl,” Zoltan claps Jaskier on the shoulder, “Relax, enjoy your wife’s company. I’ll be back later.”

Jaskier waits until Zoltan has left the ship before grinning and sitting down on a crate with a sigh, “He’s off to gamble away his money in the hopes of making double what I’ll be paying him.”

“That’s what he calls ‘supplying’, huh?” Eskel sits down beside her, brushing her plaits over her shoulders to toy with the ends of them. The air is thick with mildew and mold, the scents of the water and the rot of wood; bitter smoke and sharp hay. “Jaskier?”

“Hmm?”

“What are we?”

Jaskier cocks her head in confusion, “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Eskel bites her lip, “I mean, I know I’m technically your wife; but, what are we? Are we strangers? Are we friends? Could we be…?”

“Lovers?”

Eskel blushes bright red but nods.

“Would you want to be?” Jaskier is looking at her very intently, “Not many folks are eager to get shackled to a witcher. It’s a dangerous life, never settled down, rarely a moment of peace.”

Eskel swallows as she looks down at her hands, deep in thought. After a few long moments she reaches over and takes Jaskier’s hand in hers, threading their fingers together and leaning over to kiss Jaskier’s cheek. Jaskier freezes as Eskel rests her head on the witcher’s shoulder.

“I think I’d like that.”

Jaskier clears her throat, sounding breathless, “Then we can be whatever we want to be.”


End file.
